Seven Days of Rain
by MaruneKaite
Summary: Seven days of rain, seven days of romance. AU!FrUK
1. Sunday

**Title**: Seven Days of Rain  
**Characters**: AU!France and AU!England  
**Pairing**: FrUK 3  
**Rating**: T

* * *

Francis hated the rain.

He hated how it soaked him even when his umbrella was wide open. He hated how it made his clothes stick to him as he walked. He hated how it made him shiver no matter how thick the jacket he had worn. And he hated how it made him feel all sticky and wet and dirty. Francis could list so many things he hated about the rain; however, there was one reason that peeved him the most: Francis hated the rain because nothing good ever happened when it did.

And so it was this very problem that made Francis curse as he carried a bag of bread on one arm while holding up his umbrella on the other. Of all the days it could have rained, it had to be on grocery day. He was a student living alone in an inexpensive apartment after all, so he couldn't have asked anyone to do the grocery shopping for him. One of the perks of being a French student studying abroad, in England, of all places, where it rained the most. _Joy_.

Craving for the comfort of his own home, the Frenchman quickened his pace, trying his hardest not to mind the rain seeping into his shoes or the droplets that found its way onto his face. He was already shivering, and going to school with a cold the next day wasn't what he had in mind.

Through the slight fog that had formed, Francis could see the silhouette of the bridge that was just right beside his apartment. Francis smiled to himself and broke into a small run, careful not to spill the contents of the grocery bag he now held tightly. But as he got closer, he saw something—_someone_ hunched over the edge soaking wet and staring out into space.

At first, the Frenchman was careful to approach. It's not every day, after all, that you see someone blanked out under the cold rain, what more without an umbrella. But as soon as Francis had gotten closer, he was certain this pale skinny boy that looked just about Francis' age was harmless. And so, before he could stop himself, he held out his umbrella and asked, "Are you alright?"

Bright round emeralds caught Francis off guard, as well as a slight shove and his grocery bag almost falling off his grip.

"_Monsieur_, that was very rude!" said Francis when he had straightened himself up once again.

Francis then noticed that the stranger had taken a few steps backwards. It was at that moment that he caught sight of the Englishman before him; messy blonde hair that seemed to stick everywhere even with the rain, huge eyebrows that sagged as if it held too much rainwater, and beneath them, lovely forest green eyes that were now boring holes into Francis' head. He was shivering, but not because of the cold, it seemed, but because he hadn't recovered from the shock that the Frenchman put him through. Francis was reminded of a lost wet rabbit, and he surprisingly found it... adorable.

The Frenchman coughed, a small smile graced his lips. "Let us start over, _oui_? I am Francis," he said as he took the man back under his umbrella. "What is your name, _s'il vous plait_?"

"That is none of your business, _frog_." The stranger only glared and put some more space between the both of them until half of his body was under the rain.

Francis frowned, eyebrow twitching; maybe adorable wasn't the right word. Nonetheless, he chose to ignore the insult, being the kind Frenchman that he was, and shoved the umbrella towards the man once again. "You will get sick if you choose to stay in the rain like that. At least let me bring you home."

The Frenchman noticed that the stranger had suddenly become quiet. He was hoping that the man would take his offer into consideration, when all of a sudden, the Englishman had somehow produced an umbrella of his own.

"You had an umbrella with you this whole time?" Francis asked, dumbfounded.

The Brit's cheeks flushed a tiny bit as he began opening his umbrella. "What's it to you, frog? As I said, mind your own business."

Francis could only blink a few times, before he laughed and laughed. To others, the stranger's situation earlier may have looked silly, but to Francis it was less silly and more cute.

"Ah," Francis said in between bursts of laughter. "You really are adorable, _monsieur_."

The Englishman only blushed some more and said, "Who're you calling adorable, you fucking frog?!" He then punched Francis' arm before turning around and walking away, muttering curses under his breath.

Before the Englishman could escape however, Francis immediately made an arm free and grabbed the stranger's wrist, unintentionally pulling him closer. "May I at least know your name?"

The Brit's face reddened even more, his wrist quick to pull back. This, however, pulled the Frenchman as well, allowing him to lose his grip on his grocery bag. Thankfully, the Englishman was quick to react, and was able to push the grocery back to Francis' arm, inevitably pushing the Frenchman back to regain his balance.

This earned a quiet pause from the both of them; they just avoided a tiny little accident under the heavy rain. Francis only just noticed as well that he was almost completely soaked. And surprisingly, he didn't even mind, not when what the stranger said next made Francis forget that he was already cold and shivering under the rain.

"Arthur," the Englishman said. "My name is Arthur."


	2. Monday

**Title**: Seven Days of Rain  
**Characters**: AU!France and AU!England  
**Pairing**: FrUK 3  
**Rating**: T

* * *

Arthur loved the rain.

He loved the soft pitter-patter it made, like a soothing melody, as it dropped onto the ground. He loved the mist that played around with the air, like the magic that he wished he was surrounded in. He loved how crystal and beautiful it looked against the dark city, like innocence during war. Arthur could list so many things he loved about the rain; however, there was one reason that pleased him the most: Arthur loved the rain because something good always happened when it did.

This was not one of those rainy days.

Arthur's day had actually started out well, his classes went smoothly and his test scores were close to perfect, as usual. He was able to spend quiet quality time in the library with his books while listening to some classical music (and maybe a bit of Arctic Monkeys) on his iPod. And when classes ended, he had a nice little chat with his best friend (or so the American would like to think), Alfred.

"Fuck off, Al."

"Aww, but Arthur!" An American with blonde hair, blue eyes and glasses pouted at said Englishman.

"I said no, and that's final." Arthur glared at Alfred as he fixed his books. "I don't want to go to some lousy party with some lousy people."

"But it won't be lousy at all, man! Elizaveta will be there! So will Roderich, Matthew, Antonio, Gilbert, Lili, Kiku, Feli, Fra—"

Arthur's hand flew to Alfred mouth. "Shut up, you bloody idiot! I said I'm not going and you can't make me go, understand?"

Alfred's pout was obvious even through Arthur's hand, and sure enough, when the Englishman had removed his hand, his pout was still as clear as day. "Fine! But I'm dragging you myself if I catch you wandering about the streets on Friday."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," muttered Arthur, slinging his bag on his shoulder and preparing to leave. "Now, sod off, I'm going home."

Alfred's pout was gone now, replaced with a bright smile, as if the conversation earlier hadn't happened. This was something Arthur was grateful for. Even if he never admitted it, Alfred's smile was always catchy and it did at least brighten some part of Arthur's day a bit.

"Bye, Arthur! Take care on your way home~"

Arthur only put his hand up as a reply and hurriedly left the classroom. He had his umbrella on one hand, expecting the rain to come as always. And he was right, it had started drizzling as soon as he got out of the school gates. Despite the contentment he was feeling however, this was where his day had gone haywire.

As soon as he opened his umbrella, a strong gush of wind passed. Arthur was right to hold his umbrella tightly, but was also wrong for pulling it back close to him. The umbrella inverted out of the sudden pull and push. By the time the wind had gone and the heavy rain had dropped, Arthur's umbrella had holes where its metal joints were supposed to be. It was totally useless now, and Arthur's idea of a dry walk home totally perished from his mind.

The angry Englishman stood still for a moment, seething rage apparent as his huge eyebrows now covered at least half of his eyes in a heavy scowl. Looking at the gray sky and at his nearly-wet clothes, Arthur figured (grumpily) he might as well start running if he wanted to get home without catching a cold.

The thought of this suddenly reminded him of his short but weird and slightly embarrassing encounter with a certain frog that still seemed to irritate him. As he broke into a semi-run, he thought of the umbrella that the Frenchman ("Francis, was it?" Arthur shook his head as he vaguely remembered the frog's name.) held, and how nice it would have been to be sharing that umbrella with him at the moment. The warmth he had brought compared to the cold that he now had to endure... Then Arthur realized the thought sounded silly and incredibly cliché and romantic and disgusting—

Basically, he hated frogs and this one specific frog was an exception— he hated him even more.

With an annoyed sigh, Arthur reluctantly crossed the bridge that made it possible for him to meet the bastard. He swore that if he saw the frog, he'd push him off the bridge right there and then, without mercy. Contrary to what he expected however, he didn't see the bastard frog anywhere, and so he continued to run, a bit cheerfully this time, to the direction of his home.

And it was probably because he wasn't paying attention or that he was just too happy, but a short tumble and a few bruises later, as fate would have it, he did meet the frog once again. Only this time, in much awkward circumstances.

"_Merde! Monsieur,_ please get off me," grunted the Frenchman. "You are quite heavy for a skinny _Anglais_."

"How about _you_ move, you heavy piece of—"

Only when the Englishman's eyes fluttered open, did he realize the _awkwardness_ of the position they were in and _who_ it happened with. Right there below him was the frog that he had wanted to push off the bridge just a minute ago, and his face was only mere inches from his. Arthur realized at that moment that he hated his life as well as that damn bridge.

"Uh, _mon che_—" _Smack._

If Arthur can't push him off the bridge, then he can punch him in the face!

"Ow! What was that for?!" growled the Frenchman. His hand covered his now-reddened cheek.

Arthur was already back on his feet, his arm covering his face. He knew it was as red as a tomato at that moment even with the rain splashing down on them, and he hated himself for it. He'd rather die in a ditch somewhere than have the French bastard noticing how (unintentionally, he wished) flustered he'd become.

Having nothing to say, Arthur just said whatever came to his head. "Fucking frog, watch where you're going!"

"What?" Francis stood up, his face clearly showing his disbelief. "I was just standing right here, in front of my apartment, when you came out of nowhere and knocked me over!"

"Then you should've—" Then, as realization (and maybe a bit of the rain) hit Arthur cold in the face, he froze and ever-so-reluctantly asked, "Wait, did you just say this was your apartment?"

"_Oui_." Francis answered matter-of-factly.

Nothing much was left to be said when Arthur suddenly walked around the corner of Francis' apartment, stopped in front of the house beside it, took out his keys, unlocked the door, went in, and slammed it shut. Never mind the small puddle that was now forming on the floor where he was standing on, for even from the inside of his warm home, Arthur could hear the Frenchman's chuckling from the other side of the wall.

And that was the first time Arthur ever cursed the rain.


	3. Tuesday Part 1

**Title**: Seven Days of Rain  
**Characters**: AU!France, AU!England, AU!Prussia, AU!Spain, AU!Hungary, AU!Feliciano  
**Pairing**: FrUK and hinted PruAus  
**Rating**: T

* * *

"Oooh, Francis, did you get into a fight last night?! Why didn't you call me? I would've been awesomely beating their asses for you!"

"Shush, Gilbert! Francis, let me see!"

"Antonio, Gilbert, please," said the Frenchman, his hands held in front of his chest, signaling his friends to stop checking his bruised cheek. "I'm fine." And to prove this, he gave his best friends a small smile. (Although it probably looked a bit one-sided, since his cheek did still sting from Arthur's punch the day before.)

"Francis," moaned Antonio, his Spanish accent still as thick as ever. "What have you done this time?" Worried brunneous eyes glanced at Francis' black-and-blue cheek, his tan hand twitching to at least grab a hold of it for a bit and check if it was healing right.

"Nothing! I didn't do anything," said the Frenchman defensively, though he knew they had reason to worry. Sometimes Francis' advances could be very straightforward and end up leading him to trouble. And so he added, "Well, not this time, anyway," with a sheepish smile.

"Ha!" exclaimed the albino German named Gilbert, his red eyes twinkling mischievously. "You probably groped some cute guy's ass and didn't notice his girlfriend right around the corner, didn't you?"

"Please, Gilbert, don't think that Francis would do the same thing you did last summer," chuckled Antonio.

"Hey! I didn't really grope Roderich's ass." It was Gilbert's turn to be defensive, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I just... awesomely grazed it. That's all."

"Yeah right!" laughed the Spaniard. Then he noticed that Francis hadn't chimed in their whole conversation. Usually, he'd be making snide remarks about Gilbert's manhood size by now. "Hey, Francis, are you really all right?"

"Hm?" was all Francis could say before his attention snapped back to his friends. Antonio noticed him staring out the window seconds ago, and, unfortunately, so did Gilbert.

"What are y— or more accurately, _who're_ you staring at?" asked Gilbert teasingly before leaning across Francis' table and pushing his face against the window.

"No one important," huffed Francis, but giving way to Gilbert's curious intrusion on his desk anyway. "Just... someone I recently met."

"Hmm," Gilbert smirked. "No one important, eh?"

Curiosity getting the better of Antonio, he walked behind Francis (he at least had decency unlike some German friend he knew) and took a slight peek. On a small wooden bench underneath the school's largest oak tree sat a blonde-haired Englishman, silently reading a book with his headphones on.

The sight looked calming; the wind ruffled through his unkempt hair, slightly tousling his blonde locks, curling around his pale face; a small pink tint veiled his round cheekbones as his body struggled to warm itself from the cold weather. His thin pale pink lips were shut tight, but nonetheless they looked smooth and warm and soft to touch. And finally, those eyes. When Arthur had looked up at the gray skies, everyone caught a glimpse of captivating emeralds that danced under the hazy afternoon light.

"Tell us about him," smirked Gilbert. "There must be more to this story if your cheek is all bruised up."

"Yeah, exactly what _did_ you do to get that?" inquired Antonio, stealing a nearby chair and sitting on it backwards so its back was to his chest and his legs were straddled apart.

"Well," Francis started with a smile. He loved to tell stories, especially one involving cute Englishmen and their irritating temperaments. "Where do I start?"

And so Francis described the past events detail per detail: about how he had met a strange man named Arthur on a rainy day, all alone and standing underneath the cold rain without an umbrella; About how he had seen the bushiest eyebrows on a man but also the most gorgeous green eyes, glaring at him like there was no tomorrow; About how annoyingly rude the Englishman was yet adorable in his lost wet state; How much Arthur had blushed when he fell on Francis the day that he gave him that punch on the face. (Francis swore that if he had a picture, he'd keep it forever. He remembers thinking how incredibly charming the Englishman can be, punches and what-not.) And most especially the fact that Arthur lived right next to him ("The irony of this world," he said. He knew Arthur did not like him at all, and to this, he only chuckled.)

When the Frenchman was finished, his friends stayed quiet, amused looks plastered on their faces.

"What's the matter?" Francis asked cluelessly.

"Oh, nothing... maybe the fact that you've got this huge grin on your face," teased Gilbert.

"Like a lady in love," added Antonio. He made a show of puckering his lips and batting his eyelashes at the Frenchman.

They both fell into a fit of laughter before Francis punched them both on the arm and, half-laughing and half-grinning, said, "Nonsense! It would take a lot more than that to have me seriously fall in love for anyone." With one more glance outside the window, however, Francis added with a thoughtful smile, "He's just an interesting _Anglais_, that's all."

(Francis saw Arthur gather his things from the wooden bench, standing up and turning to leave, when all of a sudden, he stopped and looked back up at the shadowy gray sky. Two soulful green eyes began to flutter, as if searching for something that he couldn't see, and when the first two droplets of rain landed on his face, he snapped out of his trance and shook his head. He began to walk away, leaving Francis to ponder once again.)

* * *

"Arthur, where is that article you wrote for the Gardening Club?"

Arthur's eye twitched the moment he opened the club's classroom door. "Hello to you, too, Elizaveta."

"Hey, are you going to give it to me or what?" demanded the brown-haired Hungarian, her dark green eyes bore into the Englishman's head, somewhat making her eyebags sag even more. She looked more stressed as she turned back to her laptop, her fingers flying on the keyboard with ease and experience. After all, she was the school paper's chief editor.

"Ah, let me get it," Arthur sounded a bit more grumpy than he intended to as he hurriedly took off his jacket and dropped his backpack on a table. However, once he shoved his hand into his bag to look for his article folder, Elizaveta stopped typing and turned once again to Arthur.

"Look, I'm sorry, Arthur," she sighed heavily. "It's really been a rough week."

"I can imagine." Arthur gave Elizaveta a small sincere smile. He did feel bad for her; she had been working hard to get the paper done for two weeks now, and she hardly gave herself the time to rest. This woman was a hard working perfectionist, and he respected her for that.

"Here," he finally got his article folder out of his bag, flipping through the papers until he pulled one of them out and gave it to Elizaveta's outreached hand.

"Thanks, Arthur," smiled the Hungarian, turning her attention back to her work once again. "The others should be here soon," she added, her eyes glancing at her watch. "We can't afford to skip this meeting, lunch or no lunch. Our advisor has something to discuss with us."

"Really?" grunted Arthur as he set up his own laptop. "What for?"

"Something about the art club," Elizaveta shifted in her seat, but her eyes still trained themselves on the screen and her fingers glued to the keyboard. "They're coming to help us with the pictures and layout."

"Oh, well, that's something new," snorted Arthur as he grabbed a chair and sat down. He then immediately positioned his hands neatly on his keyboard.

(The Englishman opposed the idea of having more people to work with. Arthur liked to work alone or with people who were in the same or higher level as him, like Elizaveta. Being a near-perfectionist when it came to his work, he felt that having more people would only bring him down. Even in other aspects of his life, he thought, he loved to do things alone. Yes, Arthur always thought of himself a loner at heart.)

"So, when are they arriving?" asked Arthur, although he didn't really care anymore. What mattered the moment he sat down and put his hands on his keyboard were the words that were already flowing out from his fingers.

(Elizaveta was not the only one experienced when it came to the art of writing. Arthur himself was a natural, his hands easily gliding on the keyboard as if it were delicate piano keys, and his words intelligent and rich, as if straight from a novel. "You'd make Shakespeare jealous," Elizaveta told him when he first joined the writing club. That was where Elizaveta had discovered him and asked him to join them for the school paper. "No one here writes the way you do," she said.)

Elizaveta took this moment to stretch, the melodious tapping of Arthur's keyboard soothed her. She never did tell Arthur, but she was right to have recruited him, and she was thankful that he was there. Glancing at her watch once again, she finally replied, "Right about now, actually."

* * *

"What is it, Feliciano?" inquired the Frenchman, glancing at the short Italian boy walking alongside him. His conversation with Antonio and Gilbert was cut short when Feliciano entered the room and called for him, and he would like to know why.

"We're needed at the writer's club room before lunch ends," smiled the Italian, hazel brown eyes shining with excitement. A strand of his brown hair bounced as he cheerfully clapped his hands together. "We need to talk about the upcoming school paper!"

"School paper?" Francis raised an eyebrow at the mention of this. "Isn't there a club or a department for that sort of thing?"

"Well, yes, but I hear we'll be working together with them for this issue." Feliciano stopped in front of a door and turned to Francis. "That's why we're having a meeting with them right now." He then grasped the doorknob and beckoned for the Frenchman to join him.

"Oh, great," Francis groaned. "More work."

* * *

"It's about time," grumbled Elizaveta. "Hold on, let me call the adviser—"

"No, no," Feliciano chirped. "Let me! He is my grandfather after all."

"Oh, well then, let me go with you. I have to show him something," Elizaveta smiled and stood up from her seat. She then looked at Arthur's direction; he had his earphones on and some classical music playing. The Hungarian smiled knowingly. When Arthur had his earphones on, it meant that he was focusing and he didn't want to be disturbed. It also seemed, however, that he was completely clueless to his surroundings, his fingers still tapping away at his keyboard. And so with a slight nudge on Arthur's shoulder, she said, "Hey, I'm heading out to call the adviser. When the others come, tell them to wait, okay, Arthur?"

No response; just even more fast-paced typing. Elizaveta sighed. "Oh well, let's just go—"

"Oh! The _Anglais_ is here as well?"

The tapping stopped. To this, Elizaveta looked at the Englishman and then to the Frenchman who spoke. Who was he to have captured Arthur's attention so easily?

Slowly, the Englishman turned, his eyebrows furrowed in horror. "You... frog!"

"_Oui_," The Frenchman grinned. "_Rosbif_."


	4. Tuesday Part 2

**Title**: Seven Days of Rain  
**Characters**: AU!France, AU!England, AU!Hungary, AU!Feliciano, AU!Rome  
**Pairing**: FrUK  
**Rating**: T

* * *

Arthur sat still on his chair, his hands balled into fists and eyebrows hanging dangerously low on his forehead. He was not comfortable, and Elizaveta knew this as she glared at him from the front of the classroom. She just had to have him sit beside Francis. The Englishman figured she was doing this out of spite for the mess he— the Frenchman, not Arthur (Why would Arthur start a mess? Everyone knew he was the good gentleman. Sort of.)— created a while ago. It wasn't Arthur's fault that he was born with thick eyebrows and that Francis was being a total git about it.

_As soon as Elizaveta had left the room, Arthur's silent rage had already boiled into a fitful cloud of steam that was about to force its way out of his head. Francis' incessant smirk and amused glances were keeping Arthur tense, distracting him from his work. Arthur didn't like distractions, especially if this distraction involved smug Frenchmen._

"Frog," he started, gritting his teeth. "Stop."

"Stop what?"

"That. Stop looking at me like that." Arthur turned to the Frenchman and pointed at his still-bruised face. The Englishman now felt proud of his work, the bastard deserved it.

Francis only looked at the finger then back at its owner, and laughed. "Oh, cheri_, I was just staring at your _sourcils_. You have _beau sourcils_," commented the Frenchman, that irritating smirk still lingering on his face._

"What?" Arthur spat. "We're in England; Why don't you show off your annoying language somewhere where it's actually appreciated, frog?"

Francis raised an insulted eyebrow and turned away, huffing, "Your eyebrows," a dramatic pause, "they're monstrous."

Arthur could only blink before stomping his way to the Frenchman. "Why you...!"

Elizaveta, Feliciano and the adviser had arrived shortly after the fierce battle of slaps and blind punches began, and for that, the Hungarian wasn't happy.__

"You idiots!" Elizaveta slapped Francis and Arthur upside the head, her angry hushed voice starting to sound like a deep growl in the small space of the classroom's corner. She briefly glanced at Mr. Roma, their adviser, and when she felt content that he was not paying attention to them but at his grandson Feli, she slapped them upside the head once again and put her hands on her hips.

"What the hell were you two thinking?! You can't behave that way in front of Mr. Roma or else he'll change his mind about all of this!" She sighed, rubbing her temples as she did so. "We finally got the help we need, and if either one of you," the Hungarian thrust her finger closely to Arthur and Francis' face, glaring as they gulped, "ruins this for me, I swear I will whack you with a dozen frying pans until you will rue the day you were born." Arthur and Francis could only nod and whimper in reply, afraid to say anything against a Hungarian woman and her frying pans.

With one last huff, Elizaveta turned her back to them, and with a cheery, "Mr. Roma!", bounced back to the adviser before taking one last look of evil in the direction of cowering duo."I'm watching you," she mouthed menacingly. Francis and Arthur could only look at each other, scared out of their wits, and walked away to different directions, afraid of provoking the scary woman any further.

Arthur could only grimace when Elizaveta had grabbed both him and the Frenchman in the arm after her small meeting with Mr. Roma, and shoved them both to one table with two chairs.__

"You should both try to get along," she smiled, but an aura of danger had formed around her, and both the Frenchman and Englishman knew that they had no escape.

And thus, started their meeting, and the occasional glares Arthur and Francis would throw at each other. The Englishman 'hmph'ed in his seat, arms crossed on his chest and slumping in his chair. He had decided not to listen to the meeting anymore despite his eyes looking (glaring actually) at the front of the classroom where the smiling adviser stood. Whatever it was, he could just ask Elizaveta about it, and if she got mad because he wasn't listening, then he could just blame her for having him sit beside the disgusting frog. He could take the rage of her frying pans... sort of. Arthur couldn't concentrate anyway, what with a Frenchman sitting beside him, nose high up in the air like the stuck up man that he was. He glared at Francis once again, and received the same, except with a 'hmph' ending with the silence of being ignored. The Englishman sighed, knowing he'd have to deal with this thing, especially since he lived right next to him. Eyebrows still furrowed, he cursed whatever fate it was that wanted to torture him this way and scowled once again, facing the whiteboard and feigning attention.

"You look funny, making faces like that," Francis mumbled in a quiet whisper. His smirk was hard to miss.

"Oh yeah?" Arthur scoffed, replying in an irritated whisper. "Well, you don't even have to make faces to look funny. You just do." Smirking himself, Arthur crossed his arms in triumph, feeling glad he actually threw something else at the Frenchman's face other than his fists.

To Arthur's surprise, however, Francis only chuckled. "Tell that to your eyebrows. They don't even do anything; they just hang awkwardly on your face looking gigantic and bushy." Francis let out an airy giggle as he flipped his hair dramatically. "At least my face has a purpose— to look beautiful and gorgeous."

There it was again, the mention of Arthur's eyebrows. Were his eyebrows really that ugly and thick? He knew it ran in the family, in the mother's side actually, but never before were they teased much about it. Maybe it was just some horrible coincidence that his was much thicker. Snapping to his senses, the Englishman shook the thought away; he mustn't let the Frenchman's words get to him!

Arthur growled, crossing his arms and huffing in reply, "Beautiful and gorgeous, my ass. All I see is shit," a glare, "mixed with corn-colored regurgitated straws of wet cat hair hanging disgustingly from its sides."

"You are just jealous," said Francis with a wave of his hand. "You do not have the _magnifique_ hair that we French people have."

"The only thing '_magnifique_'," Arthur said in a mocking French accent, "about you French people are your lack of balls." Arthur saw Francis' eyebrow twitch at this comment, which only gave him more willpower to continue. "Looking at you proves just that."

There was a slight pause in which Francis stared amusingly at Arthur, a sly smile playing on his slightly tanned face. Come to think of it, now that Arthur looked closely, it looked very smooth, not a single blemish in sight. He did look at least a tad bit handsome, but, of course, Arthur would never admit this to himself, even if he had thought about it at that moment.

"Balls, you say."

Arthur had snapped out of his short trance, and noticed just how close the Frenchman's face had gotten. He wished he hadn't turned a slight shade of pink as he leaned back and tried to put as much space between them as possible.

"You've never seen my balls, have you, Arthur?" Francis said almost too innocently, chin on his hand and blue eyes glittering deviously.

"Wha—?" Arthur, taken aback by the sudden obscene question, stuttered and looked at the Frenchman as if he were a half-eaten rotten tomato with maggots spewing out of it. "Wha— I mean, of course not, why would you—?"

"Well then how would you know I don't have balls?"

"I-It was a rhetorical question! A fucking figure of speech, for fuck's sake—"

"Unless," the Frenchman continued, as if not having heard Arthur's frantic yelps of discomfort, "you want to see th—"

"No!" came the reply of the Englishman, hand flying at Francis' mouth. The Frenchman was laughing beneath the hand, making Arthur want to punch the other side of that cheek so much, he wouldn't even mind Elizabeth's A Thousand Frying Pans to the Face attacks for a week. However, Arthur was saved from the frying pans for, at that moment, they had heard a slight cough to the front of the classroom, and saw two smiles that chilled both men's spines.

"I don't know what you two are talking about over there," came the ominous voice from a certain Hungarian, "but I do hope it is about teamwork and grouping up for the school newspaper."

"Teamwork?" At first Arthur was clueless, and then he glanced around the classroom and saw at least three people close to each other, the other half of these people not familiar to Arthur at all. People belonging to the art club perhaps...?

"Grouping up?" came the muffled voice of Francis, Arthur's hand still covering his mouth in their confusion. It seems he had caught up to his surroundings as well, glancing at Arthur with nervous eyes.

"Well, yes. However," Elizabeth paused, her smile unnerving as she strode to their table and put herself in between them, arms hooked around both of their necks into an awkward almost-strangling group hug, "since we have an uneven number of people and it seems like both of you are so eager to be together," her grip on their necks tightened, her snarl coming back into its rightful place on her face, "then why not have you team up," and mockingly, a "hmmm?"

"W-what?!" Arthur struggled to free himself from the monster grip of the Hungarian woman but to no avail. Sometimes he wondered if Elizaveta was a woman at all. In short grunts as he tried to free himself, Arthur gasped, "I do not... want to be... paired up... with this... pervert!"

"M-me as we—" came the Francis' reply, then a sudden realization, "—excusez moi?! Me, the pervert? You were the one who—"

Elizaveta's vein popped. Tightening the grip she held on both of them once more, she banged their heads together and, in the middle of their protests, said as menacingly as she could with a smile still on her face, "It's either this or your life. Which one is more important?"

Two gulps and a few seconds of cowering later, Elizaveta let go of her prisoners and propped up their chairs to face her. She glanced at Mr. Roma, who was talking to Feli once again, then glared at the wheezing men in front of her. "Sit!" They gulped, then obeyed.

Sighing heavily, she crossed her arms and paced in front of them. "Now, there's actually a reason why I wanted both of you to pair up."

"So this is a set up?" Francis cocked an eyebrow, irritated.

"That is totally unfair!" Arthur crossed his arms, a slight pout visible from his thin lips.

"Hush!" snapped Elizaveta. "Let me explain. We, Mr. Roma and I, have chosen two people to over-see the process of all the groups. And—"

"Don't tell me," sighed Arthur, rubbing his temples in annoyance. "You chose me and _Francois_ over here."

"_Francis_, if you will, _Anglais_," the Frenchman sighed at Arthur in annoyance, then turned his attention to the Hungarian. "Anyway, why us two? There are so many people around here who qualify better than we do, _oui_?"

Arthur only glared at the Frenchman in reply then added, "Also, isn't that your job? Over-seeing things, I mean."

Elizaveta stopped her pacing, taking one glance at the two boys then crossed her arms and explained as best as she could. "First of all, yes we chose both of you. As to why, I think you both should take a look at the abundance of talent you both have. And no need to be humble, Francis," she added quickly just as said Frenchman was about to protest, "Feli has shown me your work, and as much as I want to doubt as well that it was you who made such gorgeous pieces, ("What's that supposed to mean?" mumbled Francis.) it seems that you are indeed one of the best in the club. Now, Arthur— don't give me that look. We both know you have—"

"I know, I know," grumbled Arthur, covering his face with his hand in slight embarrassment. "You don't have to say it." He felt Francis' stare at him, but he only glared in his direction and looked away.

Elizaveta only chuckled and continued, "Who better to lead than those who have the best in talent, yes? Anyway, I already have my hands full with coordinating and organizing everything, that is why I need both your help to watch over what comes after this. You will both help me with editing and discussing ideas. No butts." She strictly added as Francis and Arthur were about to open their mouths. "The deadline for the first drafts are this Friday—I know, I know it's too soon," Elizaveta added quickly just as the men were about to protest once again, "But we are pressed for time. This was supposed to be announced last week but," a sigh," Mr. Roma wasn't really available for meetings and so was I. That's why I've been so busy these past few weeks, working my and your asses off, trying to finish faster— nevermind. Anyway," a cough as Elizaveta regained her composure from the rant, "It's also a chance for you to get to know each other as well so you'll stop biting each others' asses all the time." When all was quiet and no protests were given, Elizaveta felt she was free to leave and so, with one final wave of her hand, said, "I'm giving you guys some time to discuss this then. I'll see you both later."

The silence ensued even as they both heard the Hungarian's footsteps fade away to the front of the classroom. Arthur could hear the chitter-chatter of ideas all around him as people started to plan for their assigned articles, but even this wasn't enough to break the awkwardness that started to grow between the two men. He started to play with the cuffs of his shirt, deciding that he didn't want to be the one to start a conversation. It wasn't that he was shy or disliked people, he just thought he didn't necessarily have to feel obliged to speak if he didn't want to. Besides, knowing the Frenchman, he thought, he'd be the one to start chatting away a few seconds now, given his talkative streak of weirdness and perversion.

To Arthur's surprise, however, the Frenchman had not said a thing. One glance at Francis and Arthur knew he wasn't even paying attention, just staring at the clock which read ten more minutes 'til their long lunch break ended. This was good then, for Arthur. At least he wouldn't have to put up with this bastard's nonsense any longer. Then a sudden thought hit him: the school newspaper. On one side, Arthur wished for the frog to go away, but on the other, his duty and obligation as a perfectionist Englishman pushed him to do his work. Elizaveta also did need his help. Watching her so drained and stressed these past few weeks— he could at least do this for her. Half-fuming, he decided to give in to the latter. Besides, he only had a few more minutes to talk to the Frenchman and then he could go about his day without having to worry about him. Or so he thought.

Arthur turned to the Frenchman, ready to speak when all of a sudden he was cut off with a, "So, have you decided whose house to go to for this?"

"Eh?" Arthur's mouth twitched. He stared at the Frenchman, surprised at the spontaneous question. "What?"

"House, _Anglais_, house. _Maison_!" Francis replied almost impatiently. "As in home. Or am I not speaking English here?"

"Wha— Of course, I know what a house is, you idiot," Arthur huffed. "What I mean is what about it?"

"It is what it means! Whose house are we going to to have this done?" Francis replied in amusement, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Arthur growled. He knew what the frog meant now, and he didn't even want to think about it. "There is no way I am letting _you_ into my house, school-related or not."

Francis chuckled. "I knew you'd say that. That is why for tonight," he leaned towards Arthur, a playful smirk plastered on his face, "I am inviting you to my house."

Arthur felt himself turn a shade of red and without hesitation, smacked Francis upside the head. "Who the hell wants to go to your bloody house, you fucking pervert frog?!"

Francis' vein snapped— he'd had enough of being tossed around by this Englishman. His hands shot up in front of his chest, and just as he was about to latch on to Arthur's shoulders, Arthur did the same, both their hands meeting half-way into the front of their chests and locking into a form of deadly mid-air wrestling.

"Why do you always take everything I say sexually?!"

"Because you always say everything with sexual connotations, you git!"

The people in the class room started to gather around them as they bickered at one another. The men started betting who was going to win while the women started whispering and giggling to one another.

"Do you hate me that much?! What did I ever do to you?!"

"Yes, I hate you, you frog! Your mere existence annoys the shit out of me!"

The crowd started to part and the room turned silent, save for the quarreling men. Muffled sounds of clangs were heard as a frying pan was being readied on the palm of a Hungarians hand, accompanied by slow dangerous footsteps.

"I just wanted to invite you to dinner, you English bastard!"

"Well, maybe you should... eat... shi— what?" came the dwindling response of the Englishman as he realized what Francis had just said. Before he could reply, however, a loud clang was heard in the room and all Arthur could hear next were the ringing in his ears and a few indistinct French swearing beside him.


	5. Tuesday Part 3

**Title**: Seven Days of Rain  
**Characters**: AU!France, AU!England, mentions of AU!Hungary, AU!Feliciano, AU!Romano  
**Pairing**: FrUK  
**Rating**: T

* * *

"Ugh, did she really have to hit us with that frying pan?" Francis grumbled. He flinched as he softly touched the sore bump on his head where Elizaveta had hit him. "Where did she get that thing anyway?"

"Feli's brother Romano is in the cooking club. They're all pretty close," replied Arthur, grunting as he adjusted his backpack.

(School had already ended. Looking back, Arthur and Francis were late for their class after lunch, but they were glad to have at least escaped from the fuming Hungarian. Who knows what more she could've done if they had stayed longer after saying their apologies?)

Francis took a short glance at the Brit beside him as he winced; a little shake of his head and Francis knew the Englishman could still feel the weight of that frying pan bearing down on him. Not wanting to push his luck, Francis decided to leave the laughs for later despite the smartass comments that were about to slip out of his mouth. Besides, it's not like he was in a different position from the Englishman.

"First my cheek, then my head," Francis grumbled. "And all this rain, too."

Arthur only hummed in reply as they both stopped at the school gates, looking up at the skies that grew darker with gray clouds that hung heavily on them. They had just left the infirmary, and the nurse wasn't all too happy seeing them both with bumps and bruises. She had hurried them out of the door as soon as she was done with them, not at all careful when treating their 'wounds'. She mumbled something about 'late for a date' and 'dinner'.

Francis chuckled to himself. He wanted to be in the same position as that nurse: sharing a dinner; didn't necessarily have to be a date, but nonetheless with someone he had wanted to share his cooking with. Arthur was that one person. He didn't know exactly _why_, but even after their squabbling, fighting and the frying pan incident, there was just something about the Englishman that Francis wanted to know more about; as if there was something more to Arthur than he let anyone else see. Looking down at his shoes, he started to think about how he was going to do it— to let Arthur open up to him. With how things were going, Francis was beginning to doubt if Arthur was ever going to allow himself to talk. He did say he hated Francis after all, and even if the Frenchman wasn't normally bothered by people saying that to him (Francis did have a lot of enemies: exes, jealous people, etc. He was kind of used to it.), Arthur was an exception— a big exception. It stung, but it wasn't Francis to back down so easily. And so with a smile, he glanced at Arthur's direction and did what he did best: talk.

"I was just thinking," Francis walked out of the school gates and prepared his umbrella.

"Well, that's dangerous," mumbled Arthur. He made no motion to take out an umbrella at all. Francis guessed it was because he wasn't carrying any.

"Very funny," Francis glanced at Arthur with a cocked eyebrow, and continued, "As I was saying, I was thinking, you know, the way this week started for me," a laugh, "it feels like a bad omen."

"Yeah?" Arthur kicked a leaf on the ground— his mood had turned sour all of a sudden. Francis only looked confusingly at the Englishman when he received a glare. "Well, if you don't want me to go to this dinner, then just tell me. I'd be more than happy to stay out of your way."

Then the Frenchman understood. "Oh, _non non non_, _Anglais_," he chuckled. "I'm not saying the bad omen is because of you," then mumbled, "although my cheek does still hurt from the other day," Arthur only glared once more before Francis continued, "In fact, you're one of the best things that have happened to me recently." A charming smile.

Francis watched as Arthur's eyes widened in surprise, took a short look at Francis then turned away, ears turning red from his view. He almost laughed out loud at the reaction, but caught himself and feigned a coughing fit.

"Don't you give me that damn smile, frog! I'm not falling for that— that weird ass smile of yours," Arthur regained his composure and held his chin up high, still not looking at the Frenchman. "And such embarrassing words... try to be a man for once, you git."

"Embarrassing? There was nothing embarrassing about that," Francis hid a wide smile behind his hand. He already knew he was going to enjoy his time with the Englishman, fights and what-not. "And isn't it sexier when a man wears his emotions on his sleeves nowadays? It is only a strong man who is not afraid to show his tears, _oui_?"

"Wow, you are so gay," Arthur smirked.

"I will take that as the meaning for _happy_," Francis snapped, ready to take the topic elsewhere before they argue once again on the road and underneath the rain. Arthur snorted smugly in reply.

"Anyway, as for the dinner..." a pause. Dinner? Did Arthur just mention the dinner? Francis did a double take. "You agree then?"

"Agree with what?" Arthur frowned.

"The dinner! You're agreeing to go!" Francis' smile widened, hands finding their way onto Arthur's shoulders. He finally had the chance to talk to Arthur. And what better way to begin a friendship than to start with a man's stomach?

Arthur tried to shrug the Frenchman's hands off but was simply unsuccessful. "Yes!" he barked. "Now, would you please—" Before he could continue his sentence, a warm tight hug had engulfed him, and the sweet vanilla scent of the Frenchman's cologne blanketed his senses. He didn't know how many times he had turned a shade of red that day, but if he had tried to count and wanted to beat Francis to a pulp, the number of times would be enough to send him to his death (which he really wanted to do at the moment).

"Would you... stop it...!" Arthur grunted and gasped as he tried to push the tall Frenchman away. "Let go—"

"Oh, I am going to make you the best food you have tasted in years!" Francis grinned, finally releasing the huffing Englishman, grinning brightly as if he had never heard Arthur's protests.

"It's just dinner!" replied an exasperated Arthur, blaming cold wind for the uncomfortable warmth that had seemed to reach his ears once again. He fixed his jacket, snuggling warmly into it as he stared at the drizzle that had begun to pour, adding silently, "And the school newspaper. This is all this dinner is about, alright?"

Francis grew silent. He was honest with himself: he didn't want the dinner to be all about some random school newspaper. Even if they had planned it just for that, Francis was hoping to get to know more about Arthur. However, it seemed like Arthur didn't want the same. Did he? Thinking this, Francis took one glance at the Englishman. He was met with forest green eyes staring questioningly at him.

"Yes, the paper. Of course!" Francis finally replied, giving Arthur his best smile. He opened his umbrella as the rain started to pour harder, and caught Arthur under it, only chuckling when the Englishman kept pushing him away and muttering curses when he realized he did need the umbrella. Deep down inside, however, Francis wished that hopefully Arthur hadn't seen him look desperate.

* * *

The trip home wasn't as annoying as Arthur had thought it to be. In fact, it was worse. Much worse. The frog wouldn't stop forcing the umbrella on him when he had already said he didn't need it. He loved the rain and he liked to stick with his beliefs no matter how impractical it seemed. It wasn't at all because he was sharing an umbrella with the very bastard that made him sick to the bones with girlish blushing and heart thumping and all of those annoying feelings that Arthur did not dare acknowledge, or that their shoulders kept brushing and bumping with every step they struggled to make in the tight space, or even the lingering scent of Francis that made it even harder to concentrate on the ground he was walking on— no, it was none of that at all. Arthur wasn't that shallow, and to prove it, he stood patiently behind Francis' apartment door, listening to the soft but hurried footsteps that were approaching.

"Arthur?" Francis opened the door breathlessly, his low ponytail trailing slightly behind him. Arthur took in Francis' new look for a few seconds, noticing how strong his jaw was without all that hair covering it, and the long neck that stretched as he greeted Arthur, the blue in his eyes that were clearer than any day it had been— it was just new to him, that's all. It didn't mean _anything else_. He couldn't stop looking, however, when his eyes reached Francis' outfit...

"Well, come in!" Stepping away from the door, Francis showed the way inside with a wave of his hand. Seconds passed but Arthur made no signs of moving forward. He, instead, grimaced at the man before him.

"What?" asked the confused Frenchman. Arthur needed only to glance downwards before Francis chuckled, finally getting it. On top of Francis' casual blue long sleeves and pants was a frilly apron that said Kiss the Cook with a small red heart attached below it.

"If it bothers you," Francis leaned in a tad bit too close for Arthur's comfort. "I could take it off... in one condition, of course."

Before Francis could do any puckering up, Arthur took a step backward, raising a don't-you-dare eyebrow as a warning. The Frenchman only burst out laughing as he opened the door wider and stepped back, hands in front of his chest as a sign of surrender. "You caught me, _cheri_. I won't do anything. Now come in before the rain catches you out there."

Arthur frowned, handing his coat over to Francis as he stepped inside the house. "_Cheri_? You never called me that before."

There was an awkward pause as Arthur caught Francis' eyes widen, as if he were a little boy caught in the act of something he wasn't supposed to do. "Well," he started. "take it as a sign of welcome. You are, after all, my guest for the evening," Francis grinned. He hung Arthur's coat on the coat rack and proceeded to show the Englishman to the dining table.

"Uh huh," Arthur only eyed the Frenchman suspiciously, pretending not to see the look of triumph (and was that relief?) the Frenchman gave to himself when he had turned away from the Englishman.

As he was being shoved deeper inside the house by Francis, Arthur couldn't help but notice how normal the Frenchman's home had looked. The walls were a cozy blue with a few paintings hanging here and there. In the middle of the living room sat a comfy beige sofa with matching arm chairs positioned diagonally from it. Vases of lilies and daisies adorned the small oak side tables that stood beside them, adding a slight elegance to the room. A pleasant fire from the fireplace illuminated the area with a warm orange, contrasting the cold dark rainy blue of the outside. The wooden floor creaked slightly as they moved through, and were only muffled when they had stepped on Francis' red carpets; even they were just a simple but soft red. One would at least expect more from such a gaudy Frenchman, but Arthur admitted that this wasn't so bad either.

When they reached the dining room, Arthur couldn't help but raise an eyebrow once again. In front of him, a small dining table was set with fine china plates and what looked to be expensive and authentic silver dining ware. Arthur was impressed, he had to admit, but before he could think of how Francis could own something so luxurious and exquisite (for university students like themselves), he noticed the two small candles that each sat on both ends of the table and a vase of freshly-picked roses standing almost too romantically in the middle. Something that actually smelled heavenly was bubbling from the kitchen on the other side of the room, and that was where Francis had gone before Arthur could express his discomfort.

"Uh, Fran—"

"Hold that thought," Francis skillfully took a large wooden spoon in his hand and stirred whatever it was on the stove, adding ingredients as he went.

"Really, Fra—"

The oven dinged, and with a hurried "Sorry!", Francis took mittens from the counter and pulled out what looked to be roasted chicken. He set it on the counter and added some vegetables and spices that Arthur couldn't even name.

"Francis, you didn't have to—"

It took Francis a moment to turn around as he was busy with whatever soup (Arthur finally figured it out.) he was making, but when he did, he looked and smiled at Arthur like he hadn't been preoccupied at all. "You were saying?"

Arthur sighed heavily. "You didn't have to do all this."

"This?"

"Yes, _this_, you frog," Arthur gestured with irritation to the overly-decorated table to the enticing-looking food on the counter. "We're just going to talk about—"

"_Oui_, _oui_, the paper, I know," Francis rolled his eyes. "But how can we concentrate without eating some good food first, hm?"

"Listen here, you idiot—"

"I say," Francis immediately strode over to where the Englishman was standing then guided him to the chair, pushing it backwards for him and gesturing for Arthur to sit. "that we eat first, then talk later."

Arthur glared unwaveringly at the Frenchman before sighing once again and slapping away the arms that held the chair for him. "Sod off, git, I'm not a girl. I can pull my own chair back, thanks."

"Of course, of course," Francis chuckled, half-surprised but happy that he was able to coax Arthur out of his fit. He almost ruined it, however, with, "if you say so, _mademoiselle_." He had already strode hurriedly over to his soup, laughing, and avoiding a well-aimed napkin to the face by a raging Englishman.

"_Bon appétit_!"

Arthur's mouth watered as Francis carefully set the food on the table. They smelled lovely and heck, they looked lovely too, with the mixture of colorful vegetables and artistic presentation, like Francis had painted a masterpiece but with cooking oil and a dash of onions. Arthur wasn't much of a cook (He almost burned his house down trying to make his own breakfast, but no one needs to know that.), but judging from what he'd seen in cook books, this was amazing— more than even. Everything looked so well done that it almost took his mind off of the roses and expensive dining ware and the paper. Well, _almost_.

Francis sat opposite of Arthur as soon as he was done, and with the way he had looked at the Englishman, all smiles and expectant, he figured that the Frenchman wanted him to go first, wanted to watch him squirm with delight as he took hungry beasty bites off of his work. Arthur wouldn't ever do that, of course, but he glared anyway, his stomach's incessant hunger for good food betraying his pride.

"You really are a sodding frog, you know that?"

"_Oui_," Francis smiled even wider. "a sodding frog that can _cook_."

"I'll be the judge of that," Arthur replied haughtily, as if the food wasn't already calling out to him with all its enticing goodness. He picked up his knife and sliced himself a piece of the chicken, awed at how easily it came off. It was tender, juice dripping from the sides he had cut off from, and the smell of freshly cooked heaven grew stronger as he lifted it to his mouth.

Eyes wide and a few seconds of chewing later, Arthur cleared his throat and put down his fork, doing his best to maintain a calm demeanor. "It's good."

Francis laughed and Arthur turned red because he knew the bastard could tell he loved it.

"Well, don't be shy," Francis grinned. "Help yourself."

And so began the feast that Arthur gratefully indulged himself in. He was careful not to show any signs of wanting to wolf down everything, of course, knowing that the frog would not let him live it down... not that he'll be seeing much of the French bastard after all of this. They were neighbors, but that didn't mean Arthur had to talk to him or see him or become his friend. He didn't even want to be his friend, or his neighbor, or _anything_. Francis was just a school mate, that's all there was to it.

Arthur stabbed at his cabbage, eyeing it distastefully. _Friends_. He never really had a lot. Well, not that he wanted to. No one needed to tell him that the skinny messy-haired smartass Englishman was also a stuck up, hot headed, unattractive loner that preferred the company of books and music more than people— he knew for himself. He was, after all, the one who allowed himself to be that way. Even he thought that he was everything bad and nothing good. So much for his English pride.

It came as a surprise to him when Alfred, the annoying, loud and obnoxious American that everyone was friends with, went up to him and decided to be his friend. Best friend is what he would say, _annoyance_ is what Arthur preferred. Nonetheless, he was grateful for the company, no matter how conflicting their personalities were—not that he'd ever tell anyone—and wondered quietly if Francis was going to be the same. Of course, he didn't want him to be. No one wants a flamboyant, egocentric, irritating Frenchman bastard for a friend. But something about Francis was different, and as Arthur looked up from his plate and into incandescent blue eyes and a smile that immediately sent Arthur's heart into a silent pounding rage, he knew that the bastard was _too_ different, and he can't possibly _ever_be his friend.

"What's wrong, Arthur?" Francis suddenly throws him a concerned look that makes the Englishman squirm a bit in his seat.

"Nothing that concerns you, frog," Arthur retorted, hiding the squirm with a mouthful of chicken and French onion soup.

Francis chuckled. Is that all he ever does? "Well, is it my food? Do you dislike it?"

"No," Arthur replied indignantly before he could stop himself. "It's delicious."

Arthur suddenly realized the impulse in his words when Francis laughed. It wasn't the mocking smug laugh that Arthur would expect from him. Instead, it was hearty and sincere, like he actually enjoyed Arthur's sullen company. Still, this didn't stop him from glaring and putting down his spoon in protest.

"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it," Francis smiled once again, and motioned for him to continue eating.

There was only silence when Arthur decided not to waste good food. Silence wasn't much of a problem because, in fact, he did enjoy silence quite a lot. After all, the library was his best friend and classical music, his right hand man. Awkward silence, however, was a different story. Though maybe it was only Arthur who felt awkward, because, looking at Francis, he'd say the Frenchman was indeed enjoying himself. The same smile still lingered on his face, the dim light from the candles softening his features as he gracefully ate in the silence.

Then Arthur caught himself staring, and he really didn't want to stare, not because staring was rude (Heck, if it was Francis, he'd do anything rude.), but because he was staring at_Francis_, and Francis, knowing self-centered bastards like him, would be sensitive to these kinds of things, no matter how busy they looked while they picked at their food. So with a glare at nothing in particular, Arthur went back to eating his food, not noticing the wide smile Francis held when he looked up and observed the Englishman quietly.

"So, tell me," Francis started, startling the poor Brit on his seat. "what were you doing under the rain, without an umbrella, and staring at God-knows-what on the bridge the other day?"

"None of your business," came the quick reply of the Englishman. He had forgotten about that day (or tried to), but he does remember promising himself never to talk to anyone about it, especially to a certain Frenchman.

Francis' low laugh was enough to catch Arthur's attention as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Fair enough," he said then got up to clear the table.

That's it? Thought Arthur, eyeing Francis' back suspiciously. He was expecting him to pry, hand ready to pick up his fork just in case he needed something to throw at the Frenchman to shut him up. Unfortunately, the fork had been taken away from him when Francis came back to the table, whistling some odd tune, and took his plate with him to dump into the dishwasher. So much for self defense.

"If you're not going to tell me about that," said Francis, walking away and cleaning the kitchen as he went, "then tell me something about yourself."

Ah, the catch. "I'm not going to play that little ice breaker with you, Bonnefoy," smirked Arthur as he stood up to observe some obscure painting on the wall. "We're not little girls in a slumber party."

"Humor me, _cher_."

Arthur snorted this time, picking up a little golden statue of a girl holding a bouquet of flowers off of the cabinet underneath the painting and twirled it around his fingers. "Why don't we talk about much more important matters, hmm? Like the school pa—"

"My name is Francis Bonnefoy, born in Paris, France, age eighteen. My mother's name is Antoinette Bonnefoy and my father, Francois Bonnefoy. I am an only child although I wouldn't mind younger siblings since I do love children. I have a passion for cooking and painting during my free time. I'm alright with dogs but prefer cats more. Wine and fine dining captures my heart, and so does—"

"Let me guess," Arthur cut him off, eyebrow twitching in annoyance as he leaned against the cabinet, still twirling the golden statue in his hand. "You love watching sappy old romantic movies and long walks in the beach."

"Not what I had in mind, but," Francis winked. "you're close."

Arthur sighed heavily, rubbing his temples with his free hand. "Look, Francis, I don't know what your crap is with the paper and why you're so hesitant to talk about it, but we really do need to discuss it. It's due this Friday, for God's sakes, and it's already Tuesday _evening_—"

"Arthur, please," interrupted Francis. His back was still turned towards Arthur but this didn't stop the Englishman from glaring daggers to the immediate direction of his head. "I'll take care of it—all of it. Now," Arthur was just about ready to hurl the small statue at Francis' head when he heard glasses clinking and a muffled _thunk_on the now-clean dining table. Arthur recognized it to be a bottle of wine and two empty wine glasses. "Let's drink."

Arthur didn't know (more like he couldn't remember) how Francis persuaded him to drink _wine_ of all the alcoholic drinks Francis would have in _England_, but he did. And soon enough, the Brit found himself slumped on his chair, refilling the glass with the crimson liquid, and chugging all of it down his throat.

"My name," Arthur slurred, "is Arthur Kirkland," a gulp as the Englishman tried to steady himself on the chair that suddenly seemed too small for him, "I was born here, but not really," a short drunk laugh, "of course, I was born in a hospital, you idiot," he glared at the amused and tipsy Frenchman in front of him, even if he knew deep down inside his sober mind that he had not really said a thing, "and—and my mother and father are—" a sip, "well, they're not here." Arthur smiled rather wryly at Francis, not taking notice of how the Frenchman seemed absorbed—too absorbed—with his ranting. "I am seventeen turning eighteen, and—" a hiccup as Arthur struggled to keep his body from drooping on the table, "and I hate your guts, you stupid bastard."

Francis laughed acquiescently, the insult flying over his head as he held the glass carelessly in front of him. "See? Now that wasn't so bad."

"Shut up, frog, I'm not finished!" grumbled Arthur, having a hard time raising his head to look at Francis, but he did it anyway, and glared at him before taking a sip at his wine. "My brothers' names are—"

"Brothers?" Francis raised his eyebrows, bringing the glass to his mouth. "You have brothers?"

"Yes, I have brothers, frog," Arthur snapped, irritated all of a sudden. He didn't really want to talk about his family, much less his brothers. His insides were shouting desperate pleas of no's but the alcohol was betraying him, and he was already numb, so why not? "I'm living on my own without them, y'know—all of them—and I'd rather it stay that way." Arthur took a big sip from his glass before continuing, "They were assholes, the bunch of them, always bullying me and treating me like the black sheep of the family." He laughed scornfully this time, loving how the wine seemed to cheer him up even though he was talking about something that normally twisted his guts with anger. "Even as I grew into an obedient teenager that had nothing but perfect grades in school, they never took me seriously; always beating me up and calling me names I didn't even deserve. And with my parents gone most of the time, always working and working, struggling to pay the bills and keeping us alive, they couldn't really do anything. They didn't even know."

It took more giant gulps of wine before Arthur stopped and noticed the empathetic look Francis was giving him. He hated that look.

"Arthur, I'm so—"

"Don't," Arthur growled, all the anger and he had kept instantly pooling inside his stomach, twisting and churning until they all settled to burn. "Don't tell me you're sorry. The last thing I want from you is pity."

"If I had kn—"

Arthur stood up to leave, but obviously underestimated his current state, for when he tried to take one step towards the door, his knees buckled under his weight and he fell, but was saved by the quick sober reflexes of the Frenchman.

"Really, Arthur," grunted Francis. He struggled to put an arm over the drunk Englishman and heave him upright.

"Y'know," Arthur hiccuped, the smell of alcohol in his breath suddenly made him feel nauseous. "I really do hate you. Your hair, your scent, your stupid little French accent—everything." He looked up at Francis, suddenly meeting two very close and very bright ceruleans that threatened to swallow him whole. "And yet... you bastard..." Was all Arthur managed to say before sleep finally overtook him, his body leaning heavily towards Francis more than he would have wanted it to.

Francis stood there for a few more seconds, holding the drunk Englishman on his bony waist with an arm slung over his shoulders, and smiled softly.

"I know, Arthur. I know."


End file.
